


The lightning strike

by Eturni



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Crowley's very complex relationship with God, Divine Punishments, First Kiss, Lichtenberg Figures, Mutual Pining, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Other, Scars, Tattoos, history through the lens of wikipedia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-11-23 04:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20886035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eturni/pseuds/Eturni
Summary: Written as a prompt around Lichtenberg Figures - a type of scarring after a lightning strike.Crowley was struck by lightning whilst trying to save children from the flood in mesopotamia. He's spent as much time as possible since then hiding the evidence of the scars that it caused. Azirapahle, however, is both intrigued and slightly enamoured of any lasting evidence of that act of mercy and does all that he can to try and catch a glimpse of what's beneath.When he does succeed it certainly isn't in the way that he'd hoped for and there'll be a lot to answer for when he has to explain how he accidentally decided to remove most of Crowley's clothing for the body swap.





	1. Uncovering old wounds

**Author's Note:**

> It's 2 am and I desperately need some sleep but it's DONE.  
I'll be posting weekly as something to make me feel like I'm being productive while my current WIP decides to play silly buggers with me.
> 
> The series is in a Triptych (no, I don't care that it's an art term, not a writing one)  
1st chapter will be from Aziraphale's point of view; his own interest in the scars and his attempts to encourage Crowley to show them.  
2nd chapter will be the actual scene of how this happens and the ways that Crwoley uses to cover the scars over the millennia.  
3rd chapter will be the fallout from Aziraphale's happy accident and a fair bit of fluff and ideas about divine punishment.

Generally speaking, Aziraphale had a penchant for finding a style he liked and sticking to it. This was usually assumed to be the reason that he remained covered in so many layers. If told that it was mainly done for Crowley’s benefit most people would look at the serpent of Eden, the way he stammered and daydreamed around the principality, and promptly assume that it was to stop him from discorporating if he saw too much flesh.

Very few would suspect that it was one Anthony J(ust a J) Crowley who had most eagerly taken to the practice of covering down to the wrist and ankle as soon as it became common fashion. Aziraphale had drifted into his preferred method of dress almost in solidarity with Crowley. Though, he did wonder why the other was so loathe to so much as wear short sleeves when he’d previously taken like a certain kind of fowl to water where some scandalously short skirts were the fashion.

_He knew, of course he knew,_ but his demon most determinedly never brought it up or responded to it and their relationship had always been a dance of avoidances and half words and double meanings. 

So naturally he let Crowley take the lead on this one. A shuffle, a missed beat before moving, had led them away from the topic some time in the 1680s and Crowley had never allowed their dance to take him past it again.

It was always there on the edges of his periphery regardless but the fact was that for more than 6000 years Aziraphale had fought to maintain the distance and the difference between them; flimsy as it was at some points. It made admitting to his concern, to anything outside of the purview of the Arrangement, that much more difficult.

So the unsaid stretched out between them as the proverbial elephant in the room and Aziraphale found himself swallowing back on the words every time his mind wandered in that direction. In all honesty he was getting rather full and dreaded the day that the words had nowhere to be pushed down _to_ and escaped of their own volition. Naturally if he didn’t control the when and where they would simply burst from him at the worst possible moment. Like ‘fraternising’ and ‘I was hoping to see you here’.

The angel found his eyes flickering to Crowley’s arm far too often regardless. It had been years, millennia, and by now it held a fair degree of, well, _temptation_ as well as his natural curiosity about the why of Crowley keeping himself hidden.

Of course, as an angel Aziraphale certainly shouldn’t find himself so engrossed in thoughts of tracing his fingers along the sensitive insides of Crowley’s arms. Nor should he find his mind wandering to what it would feel like to kiss a reverent trail along the spiderweb of old burn scars along his left arm.

So, naturally, he didn’t think about it… all that much.

Only ever really in the long pauses between them when they celebrated a job well done over an evening of dining and drinking. The times that he would look over and _know_ that he was catching Crowley’s eye and feel his heart lurch and _oh_… How the pause when one of them looked away left room for Aziraphale to ponder so many things that remained unsaid between the two of them.

Well, and those moments in the night when Aziraphale was between books and recalled Crowley’s penchant for sleep. Aziraphale himself couldn’t imagine willingly submitting to the vulnerability of being unconscious but Crowley seemed to enjoy it. Aziraphale often… occasionally… barely ever, really… found himself considering Crowley asleep, wrapped up and comfortable. Perhaps with pyjamas crumpled up just so, the faintest flash of stomach or back or arm showing.

Of course, he may sometimes think about it when considering arranging meetings with the other. When there were pauses in their reports for each other. When the time between their meetings left the same empty ache within him that he felt echoing in the sterile halls of heaven. Not overly much, _of course,_ just when there was too much time to think and his thoughts naturally wandered.

It was just a curiosity. Enough of a curiosity that Aziraphale had slowly started to set up little situations to offer him the best chance of seeing even a strip of that flesh again.

Some time in the 1730s Aziraphale had made the shop just the wrong side of too warm to be comfortable as part of his latest ploy to dissuade customers. He had figured that it would just be an added bonus, completely immaterial to his initial idea, if it was also then too warm for Crowley to remain as covered as was his custom whenever he spent evenings at the shop.

By the end of the decade Aziraphale had considered his attempts only a partial success. It seemed that the heat wasn’t something that bothered Crowley nearly as much as he had hoped. The first time that Crowley had come to the bookshop after the changes Aziraphale had watched carefully through the evening as he had remained completely unmoved by the heat.

By the time they were on their third bottle of wine Aziraphale had removed his waistcoat and loosened his tie while Crowley continued to lounge over the overstuffed couch having removed his justacorps and nothing else.

“See, thing is, I don’t think they even have a con- c’nshe- know what time really is up there, you know?” Crowley straightened up a little but was, as ever, a complete jack of legs and still ended up with them completely akimbo.

“Well I’m certain that decades pass awfully quickly when you don’t spend much time among hu-”

“No, not that. Not that.” Crowley waved his glass carelessly as he leaned in towards the angel. “Day and night.”

“You don’t think they know… They _certainly_ know the difference between _day and night,_ dear boy.” Aziraphale clucked, using Crowley’s proximity to check for any signs of discomfort. The demon didn’t even look particularly flushed.

“The difference, yeah, when they get here. Look, what I mean, what my point is is is that we do all the hidden sneaky stuff during the day. All stealthy like. And then if it’s night and we’re doing all the other bits we can be here. But I don’t think they _know._ They could turn up _now_ and we’d never know. But. But also… they could just… not. I could come here any time at all and they could _not._ But I shouldn’t, of course. The just in case, and all of the _not friends._” Here Crowley adopted a mocking sing-song tone that was as annoying as it was endearing, especially in the middle of his little ramble. “Nice in here though. Would be nice. Be too dark to even see me at night anyway. Oooh, or is that why you let me come at night? Always thought you were a clever one, angel.”

“Yes, yes, alright.” Aziraphale tried to ignore the flush of pride at the words, even if Crowley _was_ almost completely soused. “Point taken but it’s just better that way. Really, strictly speaking, it’s foolish for you to come here at all, but I’m certain the occasional after dinner nightcap won’t hurt.”

When he looked up Crowley was a little more gathered in on himself and was looking over his glass pensively. “Yeah, yeah I guess. Probably best not to come over more than nece- nessss” He frowned at the sibilance “ssshouldn’t be here more than I need to.”

“Well now I don’t… That is to say it’s hardly as though you’re here constantly, my dear, and of course we’re exchanging reports which does need to happen as part of our Arrangement.”

Crowley nodded thoughtfully in return but didn’t seem particularly mollified. Nor did he appear _at all_ affected by the heat in spite of the fact that Aziraphale was closely considering whether the high collared shirts that were favoured were actually some sort of demonic influence.

“Yep.” Crowley popped the p with a degree of finality before reaching for his glasses. “With everything for the Arrangement covered though. Guessssss I should leave.”

Aziraphale was surprised at how steady the other was on his legs. Must have performed a small miracle whilst he was fidgeting with his collar. “Just so, I suppose.” The angel abruptly stood up himself and bustled over to the coat rack to ease Crowley into his justacorps, brushing it out fussily more as an excuse to continue contact for a short while longer.

The moment Crowley left Aziraphale was locking the door behind him and letting the temperature in the shop relax to something much more manageable. He couldn’t say he’d been happy with the initial results.

He spent a few weeks considering his options for other ways to encourage Crowley to perhaps be a little more comfortable with him and not necessarily coming up with anything useful. He was surprised when a letter came less than two months after their last meeting to arrange a rendezvous. One more task for the Arrangement. Crowley ended up having to go to Manchester (and honestly, it was a bit of a relief) to deal with the straight running of the Mersey irrigation and to convince a wealthy landowner to evict some especially pious tenants.

When Crowley returned he seemed almost eager to sit down to hash out their reports. Nothing too obvious, of course, it was still Crowley, but he seemed to lean in just a fraction more than usual when he suggested it and Aziraphale thought that there was the hint of a smile.

He knew that he ought not feel the secret thrill that he did about being able to read Crowley like any of the books he’d studied with love and devotion over the years but the feeling was there regardless.

If he were honest with himself Aziraphale probably agreed to it a little eagerly as well.

He was surprised when Crowley actually deigned to comment on the fact that it was a little cooler in the shop despite the weather warming. Aziraphale quickly made some trite excuse about an inexistent open window and took himself off for a few moments before allowing the temperature to build once again.

Following this there were suddenly much more frequent opportunities for them to work within the Arrangement which also more frequently ended with Crowley in his shop sprawled over the couch and looking a great deal more relaxed than any demon ought to on an angel’s territory. The demon seemed to all but bask in the warmth of the shop and despite his own mild discomfort Aziraphale found that he wouldn’t change that relaxed set to Crowley’s limbs for the most decadent of desserts.

So his initial idea wasn’t quite a resounding failure but he certainly did not get the outcome that he’d been hoping for at the outset.

Despite this he really did think that he’d received a much better outcome than he’d hoped for. Especially when Crowley was so at ease and languid in the shop that he had fallen asleep. Open and vulnerable and so unbelievably trusting in a way that Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel that he didn’t deserve.

Something had lurched in him right where his heart should be when he carefully reached out to touch Crowley’s shoulder to wake him and the other’s sleep glazed eyes had found his own. There was no fear or wariness even waking somewhere unfamiliar. It was suddenly all too intimate, made him want to put to words feelings that he knew he shouldn’t have. He had perhaps been a little rushed in getting Crowley to leave after that.

Still, with a modicum of success he had made other attempts to once again see the marks that had been left on Crowley’s arm. These had included, but were certainly not limited to, suggesting that he change the Bentley’s oil himself, feigning that he had miracles required in places that made no earthly sense to wear so many clothes, complementing some of the more risqué choices in clothing and even briefly encouraging he take up nursing as a hobby in a fit of desperation. None of them were particularly fruitful.

There was likely something completely subliminal in his thoughts that fixated on Crowley’s arms by the time the apocalypse came and abruptly blew over like a hurricane settling into a squall as it hit the mainland.

He somehow didn’t particularly think anything of it when Crowley had agreed with him to switch bodies in order to save each other from their respective bosses’ fury. It was likely the stress of the last week pre-nonocalpse, the amount of other things that he had to worry about. For once, even _inside of the corporation_ his fixation on Crowley’s arms had been completely driven from his mind.

Of course, that was made easier by finding himself for the first time in Crowley’s newest home here in London and having to adjust to the new corporations that they were in.

“Aziraphale for- that’s _mincing_ it’s not. I _swagger_ for Hell’s sake, the corporation practically does it on its own, just listen to it.”

“Oh yes, Crowley, listen to what your corporation is so clearly saying.” Aziraphale’s words were so acerbic that they were the first ones that sounded about right coming out of his mouth.

“You know what I meeeean.” Crowley made an attempt at bending backwards that didn’t quite go right in his current form. “Look just let me help.”

“Yes, but do be careful with my corporation, dear boy. It’s unused to being manhandled in that way.”

Crowley made a noise that Aziraphale hadn’t known that his own form could make and rushed into his space. “Look, just… You see, my dear boy, how about we make the effort with more than walking? Go a lot smoother and tickety-boo that way.”

Aziraphale knew that he was supposed to be answering but was completely derailed when Crowley’s not-Crowley hands secured themselves to his hips and tried to walk him through the saunter. Admittedly, whilst the squeak that he did make wasn’t entirely like the demon it did come close to some of the incomprehensible noises he tended to make.

His attentions zeroed into the touch and subsequently on every bit of tutelage in ‘Being Crowley’ that followed. Admittedly a lot of it was simple small mannerisms that he’d already locked away safely in his memories of the other and merely needed to be reminded of.

Then there was, of course, the whole business of actively being kidnapped. His heart had been thundering in his chest the entire time that he was dragged down to hell. The vision of Crowley being trussed up and dragged away had burned against the backs of his eyelids that second that he woke up from Hastur’s blow to the head.

It was the first time he really doubted his plan. Not even, particularly, because he doubted that it would work but because seeing Crowley taken away reminded him so very sharply of exactly what was at stake if it _didn’t_ work. The thought of his demon being found out and smitten roiled in his stomach throughout his entire farcical trial. Aziraphale knew that it would not be abated until the very moment he set eyes on Crowley again and knew that he was safe.

It was in this very distracted state that he watched the holy water, _dear God holy water_, be poured out for Crowley, _his Crowley,_ and opened his mouth almost without thought.

Crowley was very much fashion forward and took care of his appearance. Crowley would likely not want to get his clothes wet. And with barely a thought there was a bathing costume exactly where it needed to be.

Aziraphale didn’t recognise his mistake until the exact moment that he slid Crowley’s shirt from bony, angular shoulders and at that point it was too late. His fingers went numb as he froze up, part of his mind still scrambling for some reason that Crowley would change his mind but finding nothing as enough of his arm came exposed to see the very edges of the root-like scars.

With a great, heaving breath that was perhaps far too Aziraphale he continued to undress. He froze again as the scarring gave way not to thicker and more complex scarring as he remembered but to bright, colourful inks. He looked down and there was a tree, right across the forearm where old marking should sit white and raised on the skin was a beautiful, thriving apple tree.

For a terrible moment Aziraphale truly did forget how to be Crowley.


	2. Painting over flame and thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A blinding flash of light, heat and pain and singed flesh scorching across his arm, racing out from where it had struck - the place where the child was, moving through him, through his corporation and trying to shut it down.
> 
> Ozone in his body, copper in his mouth, sulphur along his wings.
> 
> He yanked his hand back with a strangled cry, wings spasming in pain as he dropped into the flood waters, losing the child entirely from his sight.
> 
> The story of how Crowley got his scar and how the tattoo came into being.

There had always been something comforting about the rain. For Crowley the patter of it, the steady beat, had a way of lulling him and taking him back to those last moments in the garden of Eden. It felt peaceful.

Crowley had always slept better during a rainstorm when he had a small barrier around but could still hear its gentle hush against the ground outside and, preferably, above him. It reminded him of a soft protective wing over his head where he hadn’t expected even a modicum of kindness. It made him think of the first flutters of something new and strange and terrifying and _exhilarating_ in his chest.

In a secret, even more unspoken, place inside of him Crowley also liked the way the rain felt on his skin. During that first rainfall none of them had any idea if the water would be holy or not; what it might do to a demon. Often the feel of it falling from the proverbial heavens against his skin felt like a blessing that didn’t smite. It almost felt, a little bit, like he hadn’t been entirely thrown away when he was cast out.

_This_ rain, however, was completely different.

Rain was supposed to bring life. The petrichor scent it kicked up meant life soaking back into the earth and plant growth to come. This rain meant death. The total destruction of all life in the area.

The part of Crawly that was still resentful and screaming in anguish over his fall absently wondered if this punishment for the humans was partly because of his hubris. He’d <strike>loved</strike> enjoyed the rain and had used it to ease some of the emptiness from the Fall.

Standing listening to Aziraphale speak before the rains started he knew he would never again make the mistake of assuming there was anything forgiveable or mitigating in his punishment. Here was everything that had given him some measure of comfort twisted and turned for righteous Good against everything that Crawly felt was _right_. This was innocent children being slaughtered in the face of Her divine judgement. It was life giving rain twisted into a weapon in Her hands.

It was the only worthwhile angel he’d ever met deciding to toe the party line and look away from the children who might have been saved.

His stomach twisted cold at the same time as something far too hot prickled along his skin. Was it his fault that this particular genocide had been decided on? Was it partly to further punish Crawly too?

As the flood waters started to rise he’d decided almost without thought that, even if it was, he would defy Her here too. He would question, push back, scream and rail and he would not by any means sit back and let those completely innocent lives be taken so easily.

He was moving to find what lost children he could almost the second that the waters came high enough that the ark was taken from its blocks. Noah and his lot would be far too busy congratulating themselves and focusing on being sailors with a family that had barely ever seen a sodding lake.

Righteousness had its blind spots and he intended to exploit every blessed one of them as he started to sneak children onto the ship. The first few were reluctant. The water was high but not _scary,_ not yet, and all the adults said there was nothing to worry about it. Even the ones that were truly alone didn’t want to leave their homes. Somewhere between cajoling them to come along and convincing them to _keep quiet_ while they navigated the bowels of the ark around the movements of the entire family the whole sky had gone dark as night. Yes, the demon had spent an anxiety-inducing amount of time to find somewhere that was truly out of the way, somewhere that he could make Noah’s lot ignore on their way past, but he knew for certain it shouldn’t have been so dark so soon.

He’d felt breaths he didn’t need coming quicker as his chest seemed to constrict when he rushed unseen to the railing and looked out at what a few scant hours of constant divine rain had wrought.

The water that had been halfway up walls was already at roof level. At least it was where Crowley could see homes _at all_ any more. The few trees in the landscape were half covered by the waters and it was rising quick. So quickly. Too blessedly fast. He was up on the railing quick as his racing thoughts.

In the gloom of the artificial night caused by the blanket of dark clouds above Crawley pulled his wings from the space between realities and dove into the darkness, only able to tell up from the unforgiving pounding of water and the insistent pull of gravity.

_Just one more, just one more._ It had been his mantra since starting. His wing beats were slowing, heavy and sodden with the rain enough that he could hear each one in his ears over the deluge. Unless it was just the slow, insistent thudding of his ornamental heart.

Out in the darkness Crawly’s glinting golden eyes could see a small, trembling figure clinging to a branch that was just barely above the water line. _Just one more_. There were very nearly two dozen children on the ark now.

For a moment Crawly thought he lost the child’s position as he blinked gathered water out of his eyes For a moment the whole sky lit up and there was a bolt in the distance – the tell-tale lightning of an angel being sent down to earth. It was followed by a rolling roar, like the merciless bellows of the choirs during the great war. Crawly felt something primal in him quake with fear but his weak wing beats never faltered. The flash had let him see where the child was and he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity.

When he got close enough he saw that the child had maybe a decade at most in her. She was trembling, likely half frozen from the cling of the water and the unnatural cold of a perpetual night in the desert.

“Hold on, grab my hand!” He called, the drumbeat roar of the rain drowning anything less than a shout.

He reached out desperately, the pounding of his heart almost at pace with the merciless drumming thuds against his wings. There was the brush of the edge of fingers and Crawley caught his breath viciously to hold back a sob as a little hand locked around his wrist and he heaved.

A blinding flash of light, heat and pain and singed flesh scorching across his arm, racing out from where it had struck - the place where the child was, moving through him, through his corporation and trying to shut it down.

Ozone in his body, copper in his mouth, sulphur along his wings.

He yanked his hand back with a strangled cry, wings spasming in pain as he dropped into the flood waters, losing the child entirely from his sight.

Almost immediately he was lost in the darkness. Water soaked his wings through and dragged them down into the waters. There was no up or down. No light in the perpetual night of the storm. Only the crush of the water and the muted thrum of it deadening every sound.

His left arm was steaming against the freezing water, white hot with pain as the salt flared across the wound. Crawly gasped in pain before he knew what was happening.

Cold, bitter salt rushed in. His lungs heaved and rebelled but found nothing other than more saline to take back into them.

Wide eyes strained frantically to find the way out. Darkness, water, trapped. _Fuck_. His wings wouldn’t be sent away and in the middle of the searing pain of his arm Crawly felt the prickling terror of potential discorporation race over his skin. The panic only made his body drag more water into his heaving, heavy, _full but they’re not supposed to be full like this,_ lungs.

The straining, frantic flicker of snake eyes spotted a flash of light from what felt like right but must be up. 21 children. There were 21 children that didn’t know what to do, couldn’t remain safe, without him.

Crawly started crawling; the water feeling thick against his limbs as he scratched and pulled his way up towards the surface. The second he broke the surface his lungs were heaving again, desperately expelling the water as air rushed in. Though even up here there was enough water in the air that he could feel it trying to force its way back into his lungs as he heaved.

From where he was the demon could just about make out the looming form of the ark but even with every ounce of will pressed into his service he couldn’t get more than a weak flutter from his wings and even that sent a flash of fire through the wings and straight down his arm as well. The screaming muscles gave the distinct impression his wings were about to dislocate.

Crawly took the moment he had to breathe to focus, teeth gritting so hard that he thought he felt a fang crack, and eventually felt the instant bles-damned relief of his wings slipping out of this part of existence. Unfortunately it only brought the continued sharp burning sting of his arm into stark focus.

But there were 21 children waiting.

_And no more._

Somewhere in his essence the bit that had room to feel pain slowly stopped howling at Crawly. Even without the water surrounding him the rumbling above and the drumming of the rain faded into a soft insistent hushing in his ears and the ark was the only thing his eyes seemed to be able to focus on.

He started to move, corporeal limbs obeying through sheer force of will given that they lacked the ability to disobey that his occult wings had demonstrated. He couldn’t have marked the time it took him to get to the ark if he tried. It felt like a decade or nothing more than a blink before his claws were sinking into the wood and dragging him up onto the deck.

Aziraphale found them there three weeks later. Halfway through the promised end of Her ‘cleansing’ destructive rain and Crawly’s arm hadn’t yet stopped feeling as though the flesh was being lit from beneath with holy radiance. Worse, the one time he’d tried writhing into his snake form to do _something_ to at least change where and how it burned and stung his entire side had come alight with fire and he’d returned to his human-like corporation with a noise that had left the children suffering nightmares.

When he felt a heavenly presence come close he’d still done what he could to have the children hide. If he was found first there was a chance any holy messenger wouldn’t even check any further, satisfied that no demon would be in the business of _saving_ anything. And he _knew_ none of them would have a clue how many kids were actually supposed to be on the blessed ark.

He was making his slow way forward when Aziraphale came into view and his heart leapt and plummeted at the same time. Aziraphale had parroted every excuse in favour of this flood. Aziraphale had given away his flaming sword. Aziraphale was the _one angel_ who had any chance of knowing that Crawly _might save someone else._

Instead he’d frozen, looking over Crawly in shock. “Good Lord…”

His eyes had flickered to the weeping wound on his arm and Crawly flung it behind him and out of sight. It had been the wrong thing to do as the walls of the ark quite suddenly moved at odd angles around him.

One moment he was heading for the floor, at least he _thought_ it was the floor, and the next there were arms around him that had the strength of a warrior and a gentleness that humans would eventually come to associate with guardian angels.

“Crawly what on _earth_. No don’t you _dare_.” Aziraphale had gently, so gently, lowered him to the floor but his grasp was unforgiving as he pulled Crawly’s arm forward.

The serpent hissed both in pain and as a threat but it came out reedy and weak, his attempts to pull his arm back futile against the other’s sure, steady hands. It didn’t help that the edges of his vision started to go grey, and not in the comfortable way that colours shifted when he was using his more serpentine aspects.

“There we go, my dear boy. You just relax and everything will be fine.”

Crawly knew that he should be fighting to get away. Those words should be sneering, should sound like a velvet threat. Instead the trip of his heart quieted obediently and he let himself be held and inspected.

Then fire. Radiant bright. Crawling under his skin and finding the marks like lava bubbling from cracked earth. His jaw unhinged as the breath punched out of him in a scream. It was like falling again. The burning. The pain. This had to be his end. He couldn’t survive this. 

The scream dulled to a croak of pain as he managed to roll his head around just enough to look to Aziraphale. He couldn’t form the breath to ask why but he tried to plead it regardless.

To his surprise Aziraphale looked… horrified? Scared? Something that the demon couldn’t place on the face of an angel. His lips were moving and Crawly realised that he wasn’t hearing anything. When the angel’s gaze snapped to his he could swear he saw water in his eyes as his lips formed words Crawly couldn’t quite follow.

The world dimmed again. The serpent of Eden slept, and he dreamt of what he liked most.

When he woke again there was no angel in sight though the children assured him that they had not been found out, even without Crawly’s minor miracles to prevent the ark’s inhabitants catching wise to the missing necessities. The pain was also gone. Mostly. The scars remained from the lightning strike, thick and brutal at his wrist and climbing like a root system most of the way up his arm.

\- - - - - - - -

Crowley had been in Egypt the first time she’d attempted to mask and change the markings on her with ink. Tattooing had still been a relatively new practice at the time; brought down by the Nubians, almost exclusively for women and under the jurisdiction of Hathor.

She knew that by all accounts the marks should have gone by this point. She’d checked, surreptitiously but still, with people over the last two millennia. For most part, people unfortunate enough to be struck by lightning said that the marks faded. Whether it be hours or months they _faded_ and yet hers remained despite the fact that her body was charged with occult power. She had a good idea why her body remained scarred by the strike and intended to fight it the whole way.

Crowley’s eyes were fixed on her arm as the bound together line of small, sharp needles came closer. Her heart may be there for aesthetic but it felt as though it was thumping in her chest, a warning against doing this, against drawing any more attention to the scars. She grit her teeth against the feeling, determined to do as she pleased, and Her judgements be damned.

The breath left in a snakelike hiss as the older woman in front of Crowley struck the needles into the skin, a row of sharp pinpricks of pain alighting right next to the line of her scars. She thought of the dancers in the halls, the temple priestesses, the women who came to protect the babes that grew within them, and swiftly bit down on the next hiss of pain as soot was rubbed into the new wounds.

Nearby the waters of the Nile lapped against the banks and Crowley did her best to not look or think too closely on what she was doing as she focused on the voices around her and the wash of the waters. It didn’t stop the anxiety clawing at her gut. It didn’t stop the anger roaring in her chest that she could make this her own.

When all was done she was left with series of dots that followed the spiderweb of scars along her inner arm. She’d looked at it and thought with a detached kind of sadness that it had made little difference. To make the brand into something that she chose to have. Deep down it still wasn’t, could never be, made hers.

\- - - - - - 

Crowley had been discorporated since then. The neat rows of ink dots were gone from the skin. The lightning burn remained – a permanent brand against his soul as unchanging and undeniable as his snake-like eyes.

Crowley distinctly remembered when he’d sat for his current tattoo – much more detailed than the original and filled with the sort of symbolism that he knew would have Aziraphale clucking his tongue in fake admonishment whilst secretly searching it for every nuance if the angel ever found out.

He’d met Sutherland Macdonald, of course, back when he was still opening his ‘salon’ above the Turkish baths in Jeremy street. The gent had done his best to make the whole thing very aristocratic despite the fact that it had all come from the military background. By the time they were in the 40’s the practice was moving out of favour.

Crowley had known what tattoos could do, though. What they could cover and that they could _mean_ things.

The first four days after Crowley had saved Aziraphale from the Nazis were spent in a haze of alcohol and pining. That and burning pain in his feet that brought the usual occasional throb of pain in his arm into sharp focus rather than drowning it out. It was another brand on him. Unholy. Unwanted. He did his best to tend to the wounds regardless and take the worst of the burn from them.

He would always burn when something from Heaven touched him. The constant burn of Aziraphale against his heart should be testament enough to that. Indeed when he’d stopped to ask if the angel was going to accept a lift and had seen _that look_ on his face he thought he might be destroyed by that alone the way it burned him up. It looked hopeful. It looked tender. It looked like everything he couldn’t dare hope for. Then it had been gone and in the next step the pain in his feet reminded him of exactly _why_ that look was gone.

On the fifth day he’d gathered himself together, just barely sobered up, and taken a stroll down to Soho. The proximity to Aziraphale had been its own brand along his skin at the time but he made a pass across the shop front from the other side of the street regardless.

His contacts with the armed forces and counter-intelligence had come in useful once again. Since the start of the war interest in tattoos had considerably waned and most artists these days were back to mostly providing for military types. Of course, if you knew the right people, there were those who provided ink badges for every counter-culture that hid through the city and they were inevitably the ones that were easier for him to stand for a few hours while he was being stabbed repeatedly.

He’d wanted to be rid of them: the scars that marked him as further punished by Her. The things that reminded Aziraphale so readily that they were _hereditary enemies_ and kept him from ever reaching back across the gulf between them no matter how far Crowley stretched himself. He wanted to cover it, block it out with something that wouldn’t be removed like clothes or sunglasses.

He’d sat with the artist, still far too sober, and had them draw up a design. It meant sitting with tracing paper over his scars at first while the shape of them was copied out. He found himself flinching away when the pencil line pressed along the scars, lighting the often dull ache into a startled throb.

“Look, _sir,_” Jim (Crowley didn’t know if he was _called_ Jim but it seemed like a burly tattoo guy sort of a name) said with the venom that customer service workers always attached to the word sir. “don’t make me tie you arm down to the table. It’s this or sketch it onto your arm.”

Crowley had found himself sorely tempted to fill the studio with all of the negative power being generated by his anxieties. Of course it didn’t help that dear old Jim was also right. There was no way he could get the blessed tattoo without more than just a pen on that part of his arm.

He sat for what felt like hours but was likely only one while Jim sketched out the apple tree around his scars, the natural thinning of the lines as it led up his arms making it a fairly fitting shape. 

“I can work you a few details in if you want them. Tattoo’s going to be more than a pencil though. Sure you don’t just want it simple as possible?” Jim had suggested as Crowley rattled off all of the little symbolic additions he’d been considering.

“Tell you what, you worry about getting it done and I’ll worry about not moving.” He’d set his jaw as best he could as he pressed, just a little, against the man’s misgivings and made sure he was a lot more happy to accept that Crowley knew what he was doing.

The more he thought about it, after all, the more there wasn’t a single addition he wanted to do without. It all _meant_ something. He would _make_ it mean something this time, and he could suffer a little pain to do so.

Of course all of this hubris meant that the inking itself had taken several sittings. All of this, of course, meant several more days of passing by A.Z. Fell & Co. without actually daring to go in and see the angel.

The one positive was Crowley finding out that, unlike with the barber or most shop clerks or even _cabbies_ (praise Satan and Walter Owen for the Bentley), tattooists had so much concentrating to do that Jim showed no interest at all in talking to him beyond formal pleasantries on first entering the shop. This afforded Crowley with much needed time to focus on not moving or hissing or anything else that he found he wanted to do whenever the needles went directly over the scars instead of beside them.

For one, he certainly wasn’t going to give Jim the bloody satisfaction of being right. For two, every time he thought he might he remembered Aziraphale’s gaze in the moment he’d turned back to him in the church and he just wanted…

He didn’t know, not really. It was about covering the thing but he never _really_ wanted to be less demonic than he was. He wanted Aziraphale to see all of him and be able to accept that they were so much more like each other than their respective head offices despite their differences. He did _want_ Aziraphale to accept him as a demon. It was a mark of punishment from Her and he should be wearing it proudly.

Still there was something about the lightning scars. Maybe that Aziraphale had seen him before he had them? That it was one more corruption on top of the things he already couldn’t accept. He abruptly tried not to think about anything else as he watched the needle go with a clenched jaw. Ink and blood welled in black and red swirls like his own snake form and he focussed on that and the pain for the remainder of the session.

He did absently wonder if Aziraphale was able to tell somehow that he was nearby, the same way that Crowley always had some sense of where Aziraphale was in the world. It made him itch to buy him something from the little patisserie on the corner when he left the shop and just casually drop it off, see how he was doing, see if he could get _that look_ one more time.

Unfortunately it would have meant walking in there with a wound that he couldn’t cover with his shirt. Not to mention he’d need a hell of an excuse to just turn up there instead of a prearranged meeting point.

Instead, on the last day of Crowley sitting for it colouring, a small, neatly folded box with a ribbon just happened to appear on a side table in the small back room of A. Z. Fell and Co. bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For historical sake Sutherland Macdonald was likely not the first tattooist but was the first with a shop registered and also got the British patent for the electronic tattoing machine.  
The place on the corner was a Patisserie Valerie which I was _shocked_ to find was operating in London at the time. I probably shouldn't have been.
> 
> There isn't any firm evidence that the Nubians brought tattooing into Egypt, it may have just been general practice along the nile delta that passed around, but it's one of the stronger theories and it's the one I used.


	3. I don't want to run, just overwhelm me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale has to come clean about having seen Crowley's tattoo, Crowley explores his feelings on the implications of being marked (with all of the grace and serenity we all expect out of him) and it encourages Aziraphale to open up on his own feelings about the matter.

Aziraphale rushed off the rickety, questionably sticky, escalator from Hell with his ears still ringing. He hurried to get far enough away that no demon could find him if anything about his act hadn’t been completely believed.

Then he ducked down a side street and, with a slightly guilty glance around as though Crowley might appear with his body any moment, reached down to undo the cuff of Crowley’s shirt. He hesitated a beat as his fingers traced the edge of the cuff, careful consideration of what he was about to do. The first time had been chance, a complete mistake, an oversight if you will. This would be completely and utterly his decision. To step over a boundary that the demon had quite clearly placed between them. Whether or not he had ever actually _said_ as such Aziraphale could hardly claim ignorance to Crowley’s constant discomfort around the subject.

He rolled the edge once, saw the bulk of the tree; knots and lines and a small picnic basket sat at the base.

A flush of shame rose up through the angel and he rushed to cover the arm over again. He tried not to look too guilty as he hurried to St James’ park to meet up with Crowley, tentatively touching at the edge of his shirtsleeve every few seconds to reassure himself that he had indeed redone the buttons.

Then he’d seen Crowley, already there on the park bench and sprawled in a way that wasn’t quite as bad as his usual fashion but that certainly did _not_ suit Aziraphale’s body. He almost instantly forgot that he was supposed to be feeling guilty at all. Seeing him whole and well lifted a weight of worry that Aziraphale had almost forgotten he was carrying. He found himself feeling deceptively light as he settled himself in to discuss what had happened.

It was only when he mentioned having Michael miracle him the towel that he remembered what it was that he’d done. Even the sun-bright beauty of Crowley relaxed and open in his laughter without anything to hold back was dimmed with the gnawing guilt that bit into his gut.

“They’ll leave us alone. For a bit.” The demon half shrugged, seeing the way Aziraphale’s face had fallen slightly and mistaking it for worry. “You ask me, both sides are going to use this as breathing room to gear up before the big one.”

“I thought this was the big one.” Aziraphale pointed out, a little distracted but glad of it.

“For my money the really big one will be all of us against all of them.”

“What? You mean heaven and hell against humanity?” Aziraphale remembered. Our side. Their side was humanity. Or each other. Or a little of both. The thing that they were choosing here together. The precious trust Crowley had placed in him. 

“Tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

Something in Aziraphale lurched at that, raw and needing reassurance. Needing to open up to his vulnerabilities at least a little if he was going to have to tell Crowley of how he’d accidentally stumbled into his. He thought of 1967, the holy water and the picnic basket he’d seen at the base of the tattoo. He suggested the Ritz.

\- - - - - 

For once Aziraphale hadn’t even had to consider his excuse for inviting the other inside for a night cap. They had their side now, and the rest of time to enjoy it. Or at least however long their previous sides would leave them alone for. Assuming that the other would trust him after the night was done.

At the same time, both of them were oddly reticent about the actual trials as they made their way through a very fine bottle of single malt. Fortunately they had more than 6,000 years of history with less of it shared than not and it gave them plenty to talk about. Would do for a long time to come.

_If…_

Aziraphale sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, looking appraisingly at his Old Fashioned like it might give him the right words. Or just the courage to say them. “My dear, I have something I need to say, to admit to. You might be frightfully angry with me. In fact I dare say you _will_ be.” He swallowed another gulp, looking up balefully to where a single eyebrow was arched over Crowley’s dark glasses.

“Angel, ‘ere’s’a lot in the past for both of us, right? ’S over and done with.. Can’t really start apoli- sayin’ sorry for every d’sagreement or whatever we ever’ad. Everythin’ we’ve done the other might not apopro- approoo- be okay with.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly at that, half wishing to take the easy out. Wishing he’d kept up with Crowley’s drinking and was at a rather more pleasantly buzzed state rather than this nervous rambling. “Yes, you see mine’s more recent though. Today recent, in fact.” He looked up, worrying at his lower lip and while Crowley seemed focussed on him he wasn’t any more forthcoming. “You see, the holy water, well there was an entire bath of the stuff you see. And I thought, well, you know what I can be like. And I thought, which I did, that a swimsuit would be better for all of that.”

He saw, just faintly, Crowley’s lip twitch up in half a smile at that. “Angel, d’ju put me in a stupid swimmin’ cozzy in front o’ the whole place down there?” He asked, looking somewhere between mortified and shockingly indulgent.

“Well, there is that, yes. But also, you see. Well, the thing is...” He was stalling and he couldn’t help it but _oh_ this was going to be terrible. “Well, of course bathing suits don’t exactly have long arms and, well, Crowley. You see, I saw the burns, and the tattoo.”

Crowley blanched before he was halfway through the last words, looking at Aziraphale like he’d personally taken the Bentley for a joy ride and convinced it to play nothing but Brahms. Horrified and the slightest bit queasy.

“I assure you, I didn’t _mean_ to my dear. I entirely forgot. And I know you don’t like to show off your arms but you’re always so immaculate with your clothes and I thought. Well, I didn’t think they ought to be wet in case, when you got back into your body, you see. That I just. Oh Crowley I’m _so sorry_.” 

There was a beat of silence, just long enough for Aziraphale’s throat to constrict and make him want to start rambling all over again. Anything other than the terrible silence between them.

“What? Is not. S’not a big deal at all.” The demon shook his head emphatically, reaching down for his arm. “Look, see.” The words were pitched just a little too hight to be anything but frantic as he pulled his sleeve up. Having completely forgotten the buttons and expecting that the shirt would go entirely without protest they were luckily saved the indignity of being torn off the shirt by demonic strength and instead were already, miraculously, unbuttoned.

“Crowley _please_ you don’t have to-”

“Look. S’nuthin’. Jus’ a tattoo is all.”

“Oh it’s… It’s some very fine artistry my dear.” He finally managed, voice tentative and quiet as he bridged the gap and reached carefully for Crowley’s arm. “May I?”

Crowley shrugged, raising his arm and looking off into the distance as if he didn’t care. The effect was rather lost given that he was holding himself so still he appeared to have stopped breathing.

Aziraphale’s sense of guilt over the situation was almost immediately overcome with curiosity and indulgence as he grasped Crowley’s arm and all but dragged him off to the sofa, sitting and pulling Crowley down with him for good measure while he was at it. A little more comfortable, Aziraphale eagerly set to work, tracing his fingers over cleverly placed lines and exploring all of the little pieces of symbolism.

Crowley, for his part, was half certain he was about to discorporate. Or worse. Aziraphale’s fingers felt like static charges everywhere they touched his bare skin and they were sat _right there_ together on the couch. He could feel the heat of their thighs pressed together. They were close, too vulnerable, too much and all at once he couldn’t stand to be drunk. Sober might be worse than Hell but he was going to do something he’d regret if he wasn’t careful with his wine-loosened tongue.

Aziraphale looked up only briefly at the press of power from the miracle. Crowley thought he still might pass out from the open adoration in the other’s eyes. It made his skin crawl with the feeling that he’d said something he hadn’t meant to.

Instead Aziraphale’s fingers continued dancing away from the duck and towards the bird at the other side, one with a human head. He wasn’t certain if Aziraphale had kept up with his hieroglyphics but could assume not. Not like it meant anything specifically, really, bird just made sense for a tree really.

“Dear boy, isn’t the serpent supposed to eat it’s own tail, not the world?”

Crowley rolled his eyes a little. “It’s not the world. It’s-”

“Yes dear?” Aziraphale’s eyes were on him again; the attention dizzying and heady and alarming. “I know it’s likely you after all. Apple tree and a striking looking serpent.”

“Just a globe. Not really the world. Same difference, I guess, really.” He shrugged, wondering if he’d still managed to say far too much regardless.

“I see. That definitely is a duck though, isn’t it?” He smiled widely at him. Crowley was about to answer when there was the slightest stutter of breath next to him. “Oh my, is that my sword? Crowley?”

Even turned away he could hear the enthusiasm in the angel’s voice and very quickly felt far too warm. There was something about Aziraphale being pressed so close and saying his name like _that_, all pleased and eager, that he absolutely could _not_ afford to dwell on.

“’S just a sword, angel. C’mon. Swords, skulls, fire. That and roses.” He rolled his eyes mockingly, barely able to keep the waver from his voice. “Just the sort of stuff they put on tattoos.”

“Well… That may be so” Aziraphale didn’t know enough about tattoos to dispute it. “but it doesn’t change the fact that it looks _uncannily_ like my sword.”

“There you go then. Can’t be. You got rid of it before we even met. I never saw you with it. Must be one of those ‘must be so ancient it’s in their psyche’ things.”

“I. Yes, well. Quite so. Still, it’s beautiful Crowley but it’s quite the shame too. That feathering of lightning always seemed very you.” He smiled fondly at Crowley’s arm, eyes warm right up until the point the limb was ripped out of his hold.

Crowley was on his feet with his arm clenched protectively against his chest almost before the words were out of the angel’s mouth. “What’s that sssupposssed to mean?”

“Well I… What I _mean_ you see...” Aziraphale trailed off, not certain enough about what was actually _wrong_ with what he’d said to try fixing it. Everything had seemed to be going surprisingly well with his little slip up and now without warning the whole shop felt degrees colder. Whatever had temporarily settled around them both in comfortable closeness had fled in the face of Crowley’s unexpected anger. “What I meant, of course, is that it’s clear you put a lot of effort into that piece and it’s a shame to not see it more often.”

Crowley sneered at the excuse. “No, no, no. Come on, out with it.”

“Well… Crowley I don’t know.” He finally let a huff of air out in an almost-whine, feeling confused and more than a little trapped. “I don’t even really know what it is that I said that upset you in the first place. I suppose it doesn’t matter what I think, not really, because it’s your choice. But they always reminded me of Mesopotamia and of how _brave_ you were for those humans. How utterly, selflessly foolish.” He couldn’t help the fond little twist to his mouth even while he was worried that he was still saying the wrong thing.

“Yeah, brave.” Crowley chuckled bitterly. “Enough to get left with this on top of everything else. Raining divine storm retribution against the demon daring to work against her genocide plan.”

“I suppose it’s just difficult for _me_ specifically to understand why you would want to hide that away. Twice.” He admitted. “You were always… You always had a much finer tuned moral compass than I did and I suppose I just assumed you wouldn’t want to hide those consequences given _why_ you were injured.”

“Yeah, well She made sure to get me back for thinking I could try and cover it in the first place. Place I got it done was bombed weeks after they did it. Nothing but rubble and ash for having _dared_ help a demon hide his mark. Didn’t even know it, poor bastard.”

Crowley carried the guilt with him, even now, that he’d dragged some poor human bugger into Her need for vengeance. The whole blessed corner had been caught in the blitz, buildings wrecked and ruined, including the fancy little patisserie. He didn’t know if he’d made them a target too by going in there fresh from his high of having something that was his own in place of the scars.

The bloke who’d owned the leases on the tattoo shop and the ones either side had found, with the slightest bit of nudging, that he hadn’t the heart to try and rebuild on the land. Crowley had bought the leaseholds for more than they were worth in that state. Partly to remind himself of what he could ruin by acting on his selfish whims and partly to have some responsibility for repairing it. And a little bit to keep some control of what went in its place.

Some time in the mid 50’s he’d rented it out for less than it was worth to a couple of blokes with an absolutely fantastic idea for a café with a heaven and hell theme. Nowadays it was a chippy. He stopped in sometimes, especially if he was stopping off at Comptons to have a pint around people with a better eye for his specific presentation than most Londoners did.

Even after all that he’d managed to forget. Just long enough to be selfish. He’d been devastated and a little confused in the days after Aziraphale had given him the holy water. He’d twisted the words over and tried to see which way they made the best sense. And he’d become rather fixated on the Ritz, the picnic, the _some day._

He’d turned up to a tattoo parlour drunk at almost midnight and insisted on the little picnic basket. He’d also insisted on there being crepes poking out of it until he was firmly told by the artist that there was no way to make that look specifically like crepes on something so small, _sir._

Two days later there’d been a burst pipe. No one dead that time but the shop front had been ruined and they’d been closed for business for months getting it sorted. He’d known then that She’d never let it go.

“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t anything of the sort. We were in the middle of the Blitz, it could have happened anywhere. Surely She couldn’t. You… It was _quite remarkable_ what you did for those children” Aziraphale insisted, something pleading in his eyes.

“You don’t get it, do you angel? It’s punishment for defying Her. It’s- it’s bloody _proof_ isn’t it? Demon, unforgivable, marked, yeah?”

Aziraphale worried at his hands, and almost frantic shake of his head. “Oh, there’s nothing _to_ forgive. You did nothing wrong. I don’t believe for a _moment_ that being struck was anything more than a terrible accident in the storm. Even if! Even if it _was_ and She says saving those children was worthy of punishment then She’s-”

Crowley’s heart was thundering in his ears as he watched Aziraphale incredulously. And with not a little pain. He knew this dance. Too close to the edge. Too much. The angel was about to shut him down and out and get back to a professional distance. He didn’t know how bad the blow would be given all they’d been through in the last 11 years.

Instead Aziraphale’s jaw worked for a few seconds until he found his voice. “She’s wro-”

“No!” Crowley was surprised at the ferocity of the word out of his mouth; the way he’d reached forward frantically as if he could cover the other’s mouth at this distance. “You don’t… That’s not… Just, _shit_, look. Of _course_ it was wrong. I’m a demon. If I did it, it must be wrong, right?” He reasoned, almost frantic now that his angel was on the precipice. One too any questions was a dangerous thing.

“So I got a smiting that didn’t stick.” _It did, though, right in the worst parts of his mind._ “All done with and just… Just leave the questioning to me, alright angel?”

Aziraphale’s jaw worked a moment longer, this time tensing as his lips pulled into a thin, disapproving line. And here it was: the distance and the rejection. Crowley thought he might just survive it if it meant keeping the angel from falling.

A couple of strides brought him to Crowley, tilting his head just slightly to keep eye contact with those damned sunglasses. Very slowly and quite deliberately he pulled the demon into a hug; fierce and gentle with all of Aziraphale’s usual contradictions. He could feel Crowley still as a statue in his arms, though he didn’t pull away.

Just as he was starting to second guess his decision a very confused voice croaked out “Wha… Angel what?”

“I’m sorry, Crowley, _my dear._ So very sorry.” He grasped Crowley’s upper arms and gently pushed him back to arm’s length. The other’s face did something complicated then but those _damned glasses_ made it so much harder to read him. Luckily a certain principality had 6,000 years of practice and a certain demon was beautifully expressive with the rest of his face and body. “I should never have… You absolutely can do right. And I can be wrong. I _was_ wrong, in fact. My dear, I detest that you thought enough of those words for even a second to bother remembering it. You are… Crowley, you are-”

He sighed in frustration and his hands slowly crept up arms, shoulders, neck, cheeks, leaving a trail of the most wonderful fire in his wake until he reached Crowley’s glasses. “May I?”

The demon hesitated, then, not trusting his voice in that moment, mutely nodded.

Aziraphale gently slipped the frames off, biting off a gasp of almost-reverence as he reached out and found the table there only by muscle memory, not daring to once take his eyes off of the other’s. The look in Crowley’s eyes was cracked open and raw, scared and heartbreakingly hopeful. The angel felt a sting behind his eyes at being given this blessed trust after his own selfish indulgence. This was a gift worth more than any grace of the host.

“Crowley, you are quite honestly the most magnificent, complicated, beautiful creature I have ever had the privilege of knowing in my entire existence.”

Not for the first time in his life Crowley suddenly couldn’t hear much of anything over the hiss of static and blood in his ears. “Wh- I can’t- you don’t- you don’t mean that.”

It was too much and all at once and either way it _couldn’t_ be true because Aziraphale had seen himself and that absolute bastard of an angel was surely the most magnificent, magnetic, _frustrating_ thing.

The gears ground to a halt again as Crowley realised where his own thoughts were going and _why_ they were going that way. They could be an imperfect mirror to Aziraphale’s words. But Aziraphale… Crowley knew these things about Aziraphale because he had loved him since the garden and every facet of his being, even the sharp edges and faint bubbles of imperfections, meant _everything_ to Crowley. That _couldn’t_ be-

“Crowley.” His name was as much a breath as a prayer and it stopped the demon’s thoughts in their tracks. “The moment I saw how injured you were from saving those children. More kindness than the host. More mercy than the Almighty. I-”

It was now or never, really, wasn’t it? All of this. Being so open with one another. Crowley _letting_ himself be vulnerable. If he had any chance it was in these first few blossoming moments of their own side before he or Crowley reset those old barriers out of fear or habit. He was certain, nearly certain, of Crowley. The books. The church. _His_ books.

“I’m afraid I may have fallen, as the humans put it, already. At that very moment, in fact. For you.”

Crowley quite elegantly made a sound that was a perfect pronunciation of someone’s keysmash.

“Of course” Aziraphale rushed to fill the suddenly tense moment. “I understand if you don’t, if you _can’t._ I left it for quite so long and you were so very patient with me the whole time. But I _do_ love you, more dearly than _anything,_ and watching what you did for those children was the first time I realised I _could_ love anything more than-”

“Angel!”

Aziraphale hadn’t realised he’d been pacing until Crowley’s hands caught his and squeezed them. He stilled immediately, aware of the warmth between their clasped hands even as Crowley released him, fingers tracing a slow line over his palms.

“Yes, I suppose I was getting away from myself. What I _meant_ to say was that if you don’t- if this isn’t what you want-”

“It is! Go-Sat- Someone, of course it is. How long do you think I..? But you, you don’t, I...” Crowley could feel his sclera disappearing as he fought to control himself. He very suddenly wondered why he even found himself wanting to push back against the confession in the first place.

The angel’s words had alarmed him, honestly. As much as their usual routine stung it was familiar and if things changed he knew that it could never be like this again. “Do you even know how long I’ve wanted this?” The demon finally asked, voice strangely small in the other’s ears.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, something a little wounded flashing across his face that Crowley desperately wanted to chase away. “I admit I… No. I knew it, I think, after the church this last ‘41. I’d wondered enough, of course. You always were so very-” _kind, nice, thoughtful_ “so much better to me than I could have asked. But you have so much love for everything, my dear boy. It practically radiates from you, so I couldn’t begin to tell if it was for me.”

The way Aziraphale looked up at him, like he personally knew the stars he’d helped hang, made something tighten around his throat. “It was alwayssss for you.” Crowley admitted seriously, fists clenched at his sides.

“Always?”

Crowley found that he couldn’t keep meeting the angel’s gaze at that, glancing off to his sunglasses instead and wishing he hadn’t agreed to take them off. Just as he was about to reach for them Aziraphale took his hand again. He brought it up to his lips, slowly enough that Crowley could have pulled back a hundred times, and keeping his eyes on him the whole time. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find this courage sooner.”

When Aziraphale kissed him, the soft brush against the palm of his hand moving gently to the inside of his wrist, right where the roots of the lighting tree were thickest, it was like lightning all over again. Though, it was an entirely different kind. He could feel it buzz through him like it was completing the circuit, to his arms, to his wings. It _burned_ just the same, but this time the burn was somewhere in his chest. His breath was still as impossible to find this time around.

When the angel pulled away and looked at him again Crowley felt something yawn open inside of him. Aziraphale’s name fell from his lips as a prayer, a supplication, certain that he would drown in the vastness of what was suddenly in the open between them.

He watched as the angel’s eyes darkened with something unnameable, watched the bob of his throat as he swallowed. Then Aziraphale was moving in with that same deliberate slowness and this time Crowley moved with him; terrified and eager to see where this led.

Their lips meeting was no electric spark the same way his scars had been. It wasn’t a revelation or the singing of heavenly choirs (and thank someone for that). Instead it was like nothing was changing at all, as though this was something that was always there for them but that they had never reached for before.

Fairly unexpectedly Crowley felt a bubble of laughter rising in his chest. His lips twitched upwards involuntarily as he let out a chuckle he hadn’t expected to find there.

Aziraphale frowned and pulled back a little, huffing when Crowley only leaned in to chase him. “What on earth is so funny, my dear.”

“I don’t know.” Crowley admitted, finally pulling back enough that Aziraphale could see the brightness in his eyes and the _hope._ “I just. Guess I always thought it was another thing that… made us opposite sides. Pretty funny that it’s actually what… I mean, really?”

Oh, dear, but he was beautiful. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile himself. He gently took Crowley’s arm and put it across his own shoulder, feeling the pleasantly grounding weight of it there. “The very moment. And I’m so sorry-”

“I know. We both did. Didn’t want you in the line of fire. For my lot or yours.” Crowley shook his head before the angel started up with apologising again.

“Yes, but as you said. It’s our side now and I’ve no intention of letting that go to waste.” Aziraphale promised, turning his head just enough to press a kiss into the other’s arm, just about where the duck was. He kissed upwards until he was on leaves, then the fabric over Crowley’s upper arm, and finally back to his lips; heart singing at how suddenly easy this was.

He was certain there would be a lot to talk about and that it wasn’t always going to be easy by any measure. But this trust and this new thing between them was more than Aziraphale could have ever hoped for from Heaven and they had a long time to work out what that meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On looking up places that Crowley could likely go to get a tattoo I fell far too deep into the research pit. Naturally Soho is the best place for fetting a tattoo as a well known area for counter-cultures in London.
> 
> The story around the Heaven and Hell cafe was instantly mesmerising as the actual lease owner did allow the proprieters to take the lease at half the cost that he'd originally been asking for (and because the upstairs flats for the three shops were originally used by working girls). Finding out that Old Compton Street was bombed and those three shops lost at the end of 1941 was just too much of a delicious coincidence to pass up on having Crowley take over afterwards. The fact that it's also the focal point of the LGBT community naturally only makes it better.


End file.
